The Bones of Paradise (29 page)

Drawing up to the church now, he was surprised by the mown grass and the newly painted white walls. Inside smelled of the fresh cedar beams and pews. There was a brand-new pump organ up front, and the brass-lined wood stops gleamed in the shadows. Cullen sat, placed his fingers on the keys, and pumped the pedals until he produced a wheezy squall that was hard on the ears. There was the same potbellied stove to take the chill off come winter and the kerosene lamps along the walls. He never understood how people could bow down to something like the huge rough-hewn cross that towered from the wall up front. The trees had to come from the reservation or were hauled all the way from Chadron, maybe. Cedar. It lasted. He ran his fingers over the axe-chipped surface, wondering that they had not bothered to plane it smooth. The wood felt warm to the touch, and he turned to see if the light streaming in the tall windows bathed the cross.

The little cemetery was out back. From the weathered markers, it was probably where some original settlers had buried their dead. The pink stone slab was larger than most and stood out so
the eye couldn't stop seeking it,
OUR BABY
chiseled into its smooth surface. The grave itself was short and had sunk a few inches with the years. At least the kid got out before everything went to shit, he thought. But even as he rounded the side of the church, planning to ride the hell out of there for town, he felt drawn back. He tried pushing his legs forward but they slowed and stopped. Glancing at the church, he saw the tiny white skull of a bird, probably a blue jay judging from the hook-shaped beak, sitting on a windowsill. “Okay,” he said, “all right, yes.” He picked it up, careful not to crush it, for it was light and fragile as a locust shell, and placed it in his palm. When he reached the grave again, he turned his hand and let the skull edge onto the top of the pink headstone, and made sure it caught there before he patted the back of the stone and left. A breeze came up as he passed the church with a light sweet smell that stayed with him to the outskirts of town, where he thought, I will not live to tell this story.

Y
ou're my Telemachus, Hayward,” his mother said, and the words rolled around in his head like marbles. What does that mean, he wondered, and she explained about a poet and a man named Odysseus gone for years to war and a woman named Penelope left at home, and he wanted to say, but he was the one left, and she the one gone, but her eyes were shiny and her face full of happiness of a kind he rarely saw so he let her keep talking though it was mainly nonsense. He wasn't fighting off suitors and she all but killed his father. Drove him to do what he did by leaving. He thought of that time his father dragged him to see the reservation, and then his father went again without him, and was never the same after that. If she'd been here, his father would have stayed home, not gotten sad. He thought about Star and wondered if she met his father at Wounded Knee, if that was why they were killed together.

“Your mother has a poetic nature,” Father said one of the few times he ever spoke about her other than to assure him that she loved her son. Hayward pondered that for a moment, then asked, “What does that make us?”

He knew what he was. He was the one left behind, but he didn't
feel sorry for himself. Soon as he found Cullen, he got over that. Cullen told him the truth—that Hayward was the one nobody wanted—grandfather, mother, and father by default, since they inhabited the same space and it was too much trouble to stake him out in the hills like a deformed calf to lure the coyotes.

Mother came into the parlor where he was reading a book of poetry Cullen gave him. She stood there like she was waiting for permission to speak. He glanced up from the book, which was about a bunch of weepy men who felt tender and sad all the time, according to Cullen, who preferred poetry to the adventure stories Hayward liked. When she realized what he was reading, she smiled.

“May I join you?” she asked in the overly polite voice that gritted his teeth.

“This poem, ‘Ode to a Nightingale,' by Kates?” he said.

“Keats, with a long ‘e,'” she said apologetically.

“He wants to kill himself, doesn't he?” He paused for effect and her lips parted slightly like she was about to say something. She nodded instead.

He continued, going line by line explaining the poem as Cullen had explained it to him. “But he hears the nightingale, its beautiful, sad song, and it helps him, doesn't it? So nature and her beauty, if we pay attention, can save our lives.”

She nodded, the expression on her chiseled face almost afraid to show her astonished happiness. She reached out, patted his arm and nodded, believing she'd found her soul mate, the one the poets were always thinking about instead of the real live people around them. It was Cullen she needed for that, he should tell her.

Instead, he closed the book and tossed it on the table between them. “Pretty simpleminded, don't you think?”

He stood and pulled up the waist of his trousers and tucked in his shirt. “You didn't think I could read, did you?”

“I taught you to read, son.” She wouldn't look at him and he felt a twinge of sadness. He'd made his point and hurt her, but it didn't feel as good as he'd thought.

Truth was, he didn't want her mooning around him all the time, trying to show him things, trying to make up for the years she wasn't there, trying to be a thing she gave up and thought she could just come back and reclaim like a hat from the attic. Besides, he could see it upset Cullen. Hayward had a gun, a horse, and a claim to the ranch. He said these things to himself, then his heart did that sick little trick and he wanted to drop to his knees, bury his head in her lap, and beg her not to leave him again. And that made him mad, too.

Then Graver knocked and entered without waiting for an answer. He removed his hat, J.B.'s, glanced at his mother, at him, and back to her.

“You wanted to see me?” he asked. Thing about the man was he didn't get nervous around his mother, didn't hem and haw like a raw hand, or duck his head and turn red when he spoke. He was confident, not like Drum, who couldn't even see another person unless he knocked into them, more like that lawyer Percival Chance or Judge Foote, men who knew their place in the world, like they'd taken hold and made it something. Hayward watched Graver and tried to square his shoulders and relax his hips and arms the way the older man did. He lifted his chin, but not so high he'd end up strutting around like a rooster. Graver looked over, a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, and he nodded to him, man to man. Better not be laughing at me, Hayward warned with his eyes narrowed like a gunfighter's. He dropped his hand to his side where the holstered gun should sit and remembered that he'd left it in the bunkhouse when he cleaned it.

Sympathy appeared in Graver's eyes, and Hayward wasn't prepared for it. He vowed then and there never to forget his gun again. And not to tell Cullen.

“You did a good job finding that orphan calf and bringing it in,” Graver said, and despite himself, his chest swelled and he risked a glance at his mother. She smiled as if he'd just received good marks in school.

“Have the makings of a good hand, son,” Graver said, and that tipped the whole thing over.

“I'm not your son.”

He did his best imitation of Cullen's snarl. “Hayward!” His mother stood, fists at her sides, and the boy stepped back.

Graver raised his hand to calm the air, and Hayward studied the gesture at the same time he wanted to knock him down.

She turned her focus to Graver. “Please get my horse ready, we're going hunting.”

He looked startled, opening his eyes wide and raising his brow. “Not with that horse.”

Her shoulders and back stiffened, and she lifted her chin and looked down her nose at him. “I see no reason.”

“He's too valuable, ma'am. You have ranch horses trained to stand when there's gunfire and not spook at the smell of blood.” Graver hurried his explanation and his mother cocked her head like one of the dogs when Hayward gave it a new order.

“We need meat. With all these people, I can't afford not to bring down a deer or antelope.”

For the first time Hayward agreed with Graver and watched carefully as the man went to work persuading her. J.B. gave orders and kept his head down, so it was hard to learn anything from him. Instead of stepping into the fray, Graver seemed to slouch and lean back, as if the outcome wasn't as important to him as it was to her. The boy folded his arms across his chest to improve his stance.

“Stud's not gun trained, is he? Be a shame to lose him.” He kept his voice low and even.

Her shoulders relaxed. “You're right. Go ahead and get the proper horses ready. We'll be out shortly.”

Graver put on his hat and turned to leave, then stopped and glanced at him. “Can you help me?”

Hayward shrugged and tried to act as casual as Graver, but his heart pounded. The man had never asked for help before, and with Cullen gone wherever he got to after he shot off old Higgs's hat and acted rude at supper yesterday, he guessed it wouldn't hurt.

He climbed over the fence while Graver used the gate to the
corral, and they stood eyeing the dozen heads that stared back and circled restlessly until the bay gelding Hayward liked stepped out of the crowd toward him. He always had to know what was going on, sticking his big nose in every kind of business. That was what Hayward liked about him and he usually carried a biscuit in his pocket as a reward. Graver watched as the bay ambled over and nuzzled him. Finally the horse took his shirt cuff in his teeth and tried to lift his hand. Hayward laughed and gave him the treat. As he chewed, he blew warm air on the side of the boy's neck.

“Got yourself a friend there,” Graver said, and there was no criticism in his voice so Hayward nodded and smiled at the horse. “Which horses do you think we should use?” Graver gazed at him, and Hayward straightened his shoulders and scrubbed the gelding's face with his fist the way he liked.

“And let's not play any tricks on her guests. She's got enough on her plate as it is,” Graver said as if they were just two cowboys doing a job, so it didn't rankle. It was good Cullen was gone.

It took him a few minutes to choose the horses and Graver didn't grow impatient, just folded his arms and leaned back against the fence rails. There was a lot to like there, Hayward realized.

“The gray with the striped legs for the judge. You could set off dynamite on her back and she'd mosey along. Take that tall sorrel for the lawyer, he's gun broke, and he'll give him a ride.”

Graver turned to pick the lariat off the fence like he was working for Hayward now.

“And that little black for my mother, he's got a shuffling trot that's easy to sit. Are we going, too?”

Graver squinted at the house, then back at the horses, and finally let his eyes settle on him. “Be a good plan, don't you think?”

He took a minute to reply, like he was thinking it over the way Graver did, then gave a sharp nod and took another rope from the fence and dropped it over the bay's head. “You can use J.B.'s chestnut. He needs the experience.”

They had the horses saddled, pack animals fitted, rifles in their
scabbards, and were leading them to the house when Frank Higgs came out of his and asked them what the Sam Hill they were doing. Graver waited for the boy to answer.

“My mother wants to take her guests hunting,” Hayward said, shoulders squared, chin up but not too high.

Frank glanced at Graver, the house, then back to the boy with a short nod.

“Hold the next two hands in for skinning and dressing the meat when we get back,” Hayward said. Even Cullen wasn't able to give orders anybody would follow. Frank tipped his hat, a grin playing happily on his face.

As they mounted, Larson Dye from the Box LR came jogging up on a fat old spotted mare, bristling with guns.

“Good,” he panted, “worried I'd be too late for the huntin' trip.” The mare eyed them suspiciously, like they were the source of all her recent troubles, took a deep breath, ducked her head, and kicked out with her right hind. Larson grinned and patted her. “She loves a good chase.” The mare reached around and tried to bite his leg, but her teeth snapped harmlessly in the air.

Hayward made a note to stay out of her way, and Larson did the right thing bringing up the rear of their cavalcade as they departed. The lawyer stopped at the fork and said he had some business to attend to in town. Hayward was happy to see him go, but Graver frowned, and he wondered what that meant. Graver naturally took the lead, and Hayward fell in beside him, just as naturally, seized by a sudden sadness that his father was gone. The moment should have been them. Then he thought about Star, the Sioux girl he'd met on the reservation, who was gone, too. He wished he knew who killed them. He and Cullen talked about it all the time. Cullen thought it was the Indians they'd argued with on the rez last fall.

They'd been out about an hour, the sun high and distant as it headed into the afternoon, a light breeze on their faces, which was good since the game wouldn't smell them as they came down the
tall hill. In the past, he and Cullen found antelope in the washout the other side of the next hill, so he pointed in that direction.

Behind them the judge muttered something to his mother. She replied with a single word as Graver waved for quiet and pulled out his rifle. Hayward did, too. He could hear the others do the same. His horse lifted its head, ears pricked, and filled its body, ready to whinny. He put a hand on its neck to check it, and the horse released the air in a long sigh as a turkey exploded into the air. Larson Dye's fat mare huffed up behind Hayward, and Dye pulled the trigger so close to the bay horse it lurched sideways and bucked. Guns went off all around him, and Hayward felt the air next to him singe his cheek.

“What the hell!” he shouted, regaining control of his horse and spinning to face the others. Graver jumped off his mount and picked up the turkey, so riddled with bullets the flesh and feathers hung off in strips. He threw it down with a disgusted noise in his throat.

Dulcinea's face was white and she clutched a rifle, while the two suitors checked their loads and avoided his eyes.

Graver looked at the ground, nodded as if he'd come to an agreement with himself, mounted, and turned his horse to face the group. Hayward thought he should be doing this, but knew he couldn't, and that brought back his bitterness.

“This boy here has a real future ahead of him,” Graver said. “Hate to see it cut short by carelessness. Let's take turns. Mrs. J.B. first, then Foote, and Larson, you go after that. Hayward and I will back up the shooter. That meet with your approval?” He didn't wait for replies, just turned his horse and trotted on ahead with Hayward beside him. When they were several yards beyond the others, he asked, “You okay, son?”

Hayward didn't mind being that now. He wasn't low-rating him, and he was glad Cullen wasn't there to see Graver stand up for him.

“Let's head over to that washout to the right.” Hayward was proud of the way he was handling himself as Graver eased his horse in the direction he'd indicated. The boy was glad he hadn't killed
him, and he wondered if Graver knew it was him who'd shot him. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell him, but he couldn't yet.

Graver slowed his horse and stopped, sat absolutely still, as did the others. A tall, regal buck appeared, with a wide rack of antlers. He was packing good weight from the rich spring grass, his tan coat glossy in the sun. He sniffed the air, but the wind blew their scent away from him, and he lowered his head, pretending to eat as he observed them. They stood still. Then the buck grabbed a mouthful of grass and lifted his head to stare at them again and shifted his front feet as if ready to spin away.

“Mrs. J.B.?” Graver said softly, “Dulcinea?”